In the entire history of F1, there have only been a handful of women who have been allowed to participate, even peripherally. Certainly, there have been no female world champions. Things are a little better down here in F3, but the sport still has a long way to go, gender equality-wise. It’s easy to feel jaded about the current situation, but even if my own racing career only amounts to a slight nudge in the right direction, I’ll be content. No matter how much of a long shot it may seem some days, I still have my dreams of racing glory. If I can ever get on a decent team to be scouted from, that is.
“Ace! Hey, Ace!” I hear a welcome, familiar voice shout my nickname from the stands.
Squinting into the high noon sun, I spot the smiling face of my older brother, Alec. We share the same freckled complexion and red-tinged blonde hair—but though I’m built like a featherweight, he’s built like a tank. The quintessential watchdog big brother. Alec’s beaming down at me from the bleachers, looking proud as hell. It’s the same way he’s looked at me since I was twelve years old and racing boxcars, but I’ll never stop being grateful for his undying support. I bound up into the stands and let my brother hoist me up into a celebratory hug.
“I love you bro, but you’re gonna break a rib if you keep this up,” I laugh, extricating myself from him enthusiastic embrace.
“I’m just excited for you,” he grins, ruffling my hair. “A whole second off your personal record? By the time next season rolls around, there won’t be a driver out there who can hold a candle to you.”
“You might be putting the racecar in front of the horse there, bro,” I reply.
He shakes his head, dispelling my pragmatism. Nothing will ever convince my brother that I am anything short of the best F3 driver on the planet. At 34, Alec is a good eight years older than I am, so our relationship hasn’t really suffered from the usual sibling rivalry. We’re the only two children of our late parents, Mary and Robert Vaughn. They moved from Scotland to New York City when they were newlyweds. My dad was an English professor, and my mother was a librarian. When they weren’t working hard to support their fledgling family, they loved nothing more than spending time in New York’s fine art museums, going to the theater and the ballet, even the opera when they were feeling really fancy. Imagine their surprise when their two children ended up being sports-loving, roughhousing rug rats. They never begrudged us our interests and ambitions, only supported us the best they could.
That is, until they were killed by a drunk driver while heading home from a weekend away in the Adirondacks. It was a hit and run accident, the other driver was never caught. I was only seventeen when it happened, Alec was twenty-six. He had already enlisted in the Army by then, and even served two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, but he took me in without question when Mom and Dad passed away.
I’d already become obsessed with racing before my parents were taken from us. From the age of ten, I couldn’t get enough of NASCAR, IndyCar, and even the European leagues. And strangely enough, the fact that my parents were killed in a car crash only made me more eager to devote my life to racing. Maybe I’m trying to reclaim something through my sport, or demystify the very machine that killed them all those years ago.
Or maybe I just love it, psychobabble aside.
Alec and I rest our elbows on the railing, looking out across the FullSpeed test track. The place is hopping with energy as other drivers get ready to take their wheels out for a spin. I’ve always adored the atmosphere of a race track—be it as a spectator or a driver. But Bruno’s dismissal has left me stinging, and more than a little frustrated. I refuse to give up racing just because it happens to be inhospitable to women, but the constant rejection and belittling can really take a toll after a while. Being talked at by middle aged dudes has never been my favorite part of this profession.
“What’s the matter, Ace?” Alec asks, nudging me. He came up with that nickname himself, when I was still zooming around in my Big Wheel. Even though “Ainsley” is technically a unisex name, he said I needed something tougher still. It stuck, and my friends all call me “Ace” to this day. I think it suits me pretty well.
“Just wondering when I’m gonna catch a break is all,” I sigh, watching as my teammate Eddie—the prince of FullSpeed Racing, and nephew of one of the owners—climbs into his car. “This whole paying-my-dues thing is getting old.”
“That’s kinda the whole point of paying dues, right?” Alec laughs, crossing his heavily-inked arms. “You work, and work, and work, and then one day something just...falls out of the sky. Just like—Hey!”
I look up in surprise as a big red bouncy ball collides with Alec’s head, dropping off into the pit below us. My brother and I glance around, searching for the owner of the lost ball. It isn’t until I feel a tug on my sleeve that I look down and find a two-year-old boy staring back up at me. My biological clock has yet to start ticking in earnest, but even I have to admit that this kid is absolutely adorable. He’s got a mop of dirty blonde curls, a warm, olive complexion, and the most dazzling blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His white sneakers are scuffed and muddy, and he’s even wearing a tiny racing jacket. For a second, it’s all I can do to stare at him. Toddlers aren't exactly a common sight around here.
“My ball,” he finally says in a tiny voice, his baby blues wide and serious. “That’s my ball!”
“Looks like your ball is long gone, little guy,” Alec says gruffly, rubbing his temple where the rubber sphere struck him.
“But...that’s my ball,” the kid sniffs, looking heartbroken as hell. Big, round tears well up in his eyes and his lower lips sets to quivering.
“Stay right here,” I tell him, laying a hand on his tiny shoulder, “I’ll grab it for you.”
I vault over the railing and chase down the bouncy ball from where it’s rolled under my car. The pit crew looks at me curiously as I lower myself onto the pavement and snatch the toy out from beneath the undercarriage. With those gorgeous blue eyes, I bet that little boy has no trouble getting people to help him out. But I don’t mind being counted among that number.
My fingers finally close around the ball, and I pull myself back to my feet, eager to return the prize to my new little friend. But as I straighten up, I see that the members of my pit crew are all staring, gobsmacked, back toward the stands. I follow their collective gaze to where I left Alec standing with the little boy, and see for myself that they’ve been joined by a third figure. A woman. A stunning, statuesque woman who’s scooping the two-year-old up into her arms. Even my unflappable brother is staring at her, unabashed. The sight of a woman other than me around the track is an event in and of itself, it would seem. Let alone a woman as beautiful as the one who’s appeared this afternoon.
I jog back to the bleachers, holding the red ball out to the toddler. His tiny face breaks into a huge grin as he happily reclaims the toy from my hands.
“There you go, buddy,” I say warmly.
“Thanks for that,” says the woman holding him, a smile curving her full lips. “He loves that thing.”
“No problem,” I tell her, brushing a loose lock of hair from my grease-smudged forehead. “Is this little one yours?”
“Sure is,” she smiles, planting a kiss on the top of his head. “Say hello to the nice lady who rescued your ball, Alfie.”
“Hello,” he mumbles, bashful all of a sudden.
“Hi there, Alfie,” I reply, leaning down toward him. “My name is Ace. That big lug you hit with your ball is my brother, Alec.”
“Who’re you calling a big lug?” Alec says gruffly, finally snapping back to attention.
“My real name is Ainsley. Ainsley Vaughn,” I say to the boy’s mother. “I’m one of the FullSpeed drivers.”
“I know who you are, Ainsley,” she says, her grin widening as she looks me over.
“Oh. Are you guys with one of the other drivers or something?” I ask, puzzled as to why this goddess would know who I am. She does look vaguely familiar, but I’m sure I would have remember
ed meeting her in person. Huge sunglasses obscure her face, so I can’t quite place her.
“Sort of, but not one of the drivers here,” she laughs, setting Alfie down at her feet. “Racing sort of runs in our family.” She plucks off her sunglasses and sets them on top of her chestnut curls. All at once, I know exactly why my teammates stopped to stare at her. And why she looks so familiar. She extends a hand to me and begins, “My name’s—”
“Siena Lazio,” I breathe, humbled to find myself in the presence of F1 royalty.
“Siena Davies, these days,” she winks, giving my hand a firm shake.
I stare at the beautiful woman before me, speechless with disbelief. Siena Lazio—or rather, Siena Davies—is one of the most successful women in the world of F1. She’s the daughter of the late, great Alfonso Lazio, a legendary driver of Italy’s Team Ferrelli. She was born and raised in the world of F1, and came aboard as the PR manager for her father’s team right out of college. Eventually, she took over as a Team Ferrelli shareholder after her father’s death a couple years ago. Since then, she’s been shaking things up left and right, working to make F1 a more current and inclusive sport. She’s an inspiration. A true rockstar.
Which begs the question, what is she doing at our dinky little track?
“It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Lazio. I mean, Ms. Davies,” I stammer, grinning like an idiot. “I’ve always been something of a Ferrelli fan.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” my brother chuckles. “You should‘ve seen her bedroom walls when she was a kid. Ferrelli posters everywhere. Mostly of that pretty boy driver. What was his name, Ace?”
“You must be referring to my brother Enzo,” Siena laughs, crossing her slender arms.
“That’s the one!” Alec grins, elbowing me in the side. “He was Ace’s celebrity crush for the longest time. The other girls had N’Sync posters on their walls, she had Enzo.”
“Way to blow up my spot, bro,” I mutter, my cheeks turning bright red. I blush at the even the least bit of provocation, but I’m sure anyone would be a little embarrassed to be called out on their high school crush. And in front of his equally famous sister, no less. Of course, it would be a lot less embarrassing if my crush had ceased to exist after high school. I have to admit, Enzo Lazio is still my number one fantasy squeeze. Always has been.
“You wouldn’t be the first young woman to fall under my brother’s spell,” Siena laughs, rolling her eyes. “He’s always been lucky with the ladies, that one. But to be honest, Ainsley, I’m not too interested in discussing my brother right now. I’d rather talk about you.”
“Me?” I reply, excitement searing along my nerves.
“You,” Siena affirms. “But why don’t we find a more private place to chat. Are you guys busy right now?”
“Not at all!” Alec says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you and Alfie come back to our place in Brooklyn? There’s a six pack in the fridge that needs drinking.”
“Sounds perfect,” Siena smiles, taking Alfie’s hand in hers. “Will your team mind if you head out, Ace?”
“Are you kidding?” I scoff, “They won’t even notice I’ve gone.”
“Perfect,” Siena says. “Let’s go. I’ve got a car waiting.”
Chapter Three
The entire drive back to our little corner of Brooklyn is utterly surreal. Siena is nice enough to give us a lift in an honest-to-god Team Ferrelli town car. I feel like royalty, being ferried over the Verrazano Bridge, back to my home borough. Alec sits up front with the driver, while Siena and I sandwich Alfie in the back seat. I pinch myself a dozen times during the ride, just to be sure I’m really awake. But it would seem that I’m not dreaming after all.
We pull up in front of the modest Brooklyn townhouse that has been home for as long as I can remember. The little gem is nestled on the west side of Prospect Park, in the neighborhood called Windsor Terrace. My parents bought this place back in the ‘80s, when the area was anything but trendy. Alec and I inherited the property when my parents passed away, and these days it’s probably worth about five times as much as they paid for it way back when. But even with Brooklyn becoming more gentrified by the day, our neighborhood still feels like a community. Most of our neighbors have lived here just as long as we have. A few of them look on with curiosity even now, as Alec and I step out of our fancy ride.
“You’re probably used to nicer digs than this,” my brother says to Siena, unlocking the front door of our two-story home.
“Actually, I spent most of my twenties in a tiny studio apartment in the East Village,” she tells us, “This place is downright palatial in comparison.”
The four of us settle down around our well-loved kitchen table. I try not to be self-conscious of the oilcloth cover, the mismatched mugs in the cupboards, the rings of coffee that stain the countertop. But Siena seems delighted by our place, charmed even. As promised, Alec produces three bottles of Brooklyn Lager—a personal favorite in our house—and a cup of apple juice for Alfie.
“I couldn’t help overhearing that you knocked a full second off your best time this afternoon,” Siena says to me, raising her bottle. “That’s something to drink to, I think.”
“Thanks,” I smile proudly, clinking my beer to hers. “I’m pretty stoked about it.”
“You’re very welcome,” she replies. “I’d be pretty happy with a time like that, if I were you. You’ve got to be the best driver among that motley crew FullSpeed has thrown together. No offense to you.”
“None taken, I assure you,” I laugh. “FullSpeed isn’t exactly the A Team it supposes itself to be.”
“That’s for damn sure,” Alec scoffs, leaning his elbows on the scuffed table. “Those assholes have never given you the credit you deserve.”
“Is that true, Ainsley?” Siena asks, lifting a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting as much time behind the wheel as I’d like,” I admit. “Not that I’m complaining about having to work my way up the ladder or anything.”
“There’s working your way up, and there’s getting passed over for no good reason,” Siena observes, “Excuse me for being frank, but I think you’re getting passed over.”
“She is,” Alec nods earnestly. “She’s got the best times of anyone on that team, and they’re still letting that guy Eddie take the lead. Just ‘cause he’s one of the owners’ nephews or whatever. It’s nepotism is what it is.”
I smile over at my big brother. He’s always been my fiercest advocate and supporter, on top of everything else. He can be a little rough around the edges sometimes, but I don’t know what I’d do without him.
“On the one hand, it’s ridiculous that you’re getting pushed aside for less talented drivers,” Siena tells me, as Alfie bounces his ball against the tabletop. “But on the other hand...that might make my pitch all the more appealing to you.”
“Your...pitch?” I ask, heart lodged squarely in my throat.
“That’s right,” Siena nods, “I’m a woman on a mission. And that mission is you, Ainsley. I’ve been tracking your career from afar, and I have to say that I’m very impressed. Even more so after seeing you drive this afternoon.”
“Um. Thank you,” I say, “That’s really awesome to hear. Kind of unbelievable, actually.”
“It’s the truth,” Siena replies. “You’re an excellent driver, Ainsley. Really. It’s a crime for you to be languishing on FullSpeed’s roster without ever getting your due. You’re not getting the attention you deserve. But I’d like to change that, if you’re interested.”
Alec and I exchange a look over our old kitchen table. Holy shit...could this seriously be happening right now?
“What do you have in mind?” I ask Siena.
“Ainsley,” she begins, laying a hand on mine, “I’d like to invite you to join Team Ferrelli for the upcoming season as an affiliated driver.”
I have to clench my teeth to keep my jaw from cracking agai
nst the floor. “You want me...to be on Team Ferrelli?”
“I really do,” she tells me. “You’re damn good behind the wheel, and we’d be lucky to have you. And, to be totally up front with you, it’s been my mission as a Team Ferrelli shareholder to stack our team with amazing female talent. We’ve got more women than ever working behind the scenes, but you’d be the first female driver to join our roster. If you accept my offer, that is.”
“That would be such an honor,” I say quickly, a wild grin spreading across my face. “But you said I’d be an ‘affiliated’ driver?”
“That’s right,” Siena allows, “I wouldn’t be able to offer you a full spot right off the bat. We have a few other guys we’ve been training, and it wouldn’t be fair to fast track you like that. You’d spend the offseason as a Team Ferrelli affiliated driver, or a test driver, if you will. You’d be helping us fine tune our machinery and our strategy. And you’d be getting some great experience and exposure.”
“But there’d be hope of me becoming an actual driver, right?” I ask. “Don’t get me wrong, Ferrelli is in a whole different universe than FullSpeed. But I don’t want to go from sitting on one bench to sitting on a fancier bench.”
“Of course not,” Siena agrees. “Make no mistake, I want you to become an integral part of our team. When the time is right.”
I sit back in my chair as the whole world spins like mad around me. I can feel my entire life reorienting around this singular moment. This is truly the opportunity of a lifetime, or at least that’s how it feels. But that begs the question—
“So, what’s the catch, right?” Siena takes the words right out of my mouth.
“You read my mind,” I admit, watching as Alfie scrambles off his chair to chase his red ball across the kitchen tiles.
“That’s a good question, and you’re right to ask,” Siena nods, “I wouldn’t be making this offer if I didn’t think Team Ferrelli would benefit from your presence as well. Like I said, I’m committed to making our team more diverse. You’d be helping to make that happen. But while you’re still an affiliated driver, your role will be as much about PR as it is about performance on the track.”
Faster Dirtier (Take Me...#5) (A Team Ferrelli Novel) Page 2
